


to seek the light of truth

by sparrow_ink



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22275739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow_ink/pseuds/sparrow_ink
Summary: A retelling of the myth of Eros & Psyche.An ancient artifact awakens in Magical Britain. Drama ensues. Hermione Granger doesn't have time for nonsense like having her marriage arranged by a semi-sentient cup, only it seems she doesn't have much choice in the matter. How is she supposed to help replenish the population of magical Britain when she doesn't even know her husband's name, and she's never seen his face? And is she actually falling in love with someone who might as well be a ghost? Of course not. That would be ridiculous.Herein contains: a library as a bribe (a bribrary, if you will), too much magical chess and tea drinking, and more nonsense than you can shake a wand at. Enjoy!
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9
Collections: Where Gods Dwell: A Dramione Fest





	to seek the light of truth

Hermione smoothes down a crease that’s appeared down one side of her robes. A moment later it crinkles back into place, and she glares at it. It does not smoothe out with the force of her mind. Hermione can’t help but feel a small twinge of regret that she’d never actually noted down any of the little homemaking spells that Molly Weasley tried to teach her. And can’t very well ask her for one now, on account of how they’re not currently on speaking terms. 

She was barely on time to this meeting anyway, due to a Floo hiccup, so there wouldn’t have been time to fix it. She deliberately looks away from the crease, and turns her attention back to the door. This time her narrowed eyes have the intended effect, and the door opens immediately. Helped along by Minister Shacklebolt from the inside, a minor detail. 

He’s wearing his usual colorful robes and faint smile, though his eyes appear shadowed. Hermione rather suspects that he isn’t getting much sleep. He gestures her into his office, then sits heavily into one of a paired seating arrangement. Hermione stands next to the other chair, too keyed up to sit. Shacklebolt raises one hand when she opens her mouth.

“I do have news,” he says. Hermione breaths out. “But nothing you will want to hear.”

Hermione decides that now might be a good time to sit, actually. Shacklebolt regards her solemnly. 

“The Edict is ironclad. Our Unspeakables have not been able to find any way to counteract it that would not seriously jeopardize the greater London area, and likely even further. Neither have their counterparts among our neighboring magical governments.” 

“Not anything?” Hermione asks, incredulous, “Nothing? Certainly there must be some experiment that can be attempted,  _ some  _ way to prevent it.”

Shacklebolt shakes his head. “The risk of failure is too high. This is not spellcraft as we know it today, and the amount of power housed within the Chalice of Renewal could be catastrophic if improperly unleashed. I am told that if we attempt to destroy it, the fallout would be similar to a Muggle atomic bomb. And from what we have already seen, its self-preservation protocols appear to be… strict.” 

Those poor interns. 

“Unless, that is, you have found something in your research?” he asks, gaze suddenly intent. “Any loophole you’ve found in the text of the Edict?”

Hermione’s stomach clenches, though she knows his question is the reason she’s even here. She unlocks her jaw to say,

“No.”

Shacklebolt’s expression dims back into resignation. Humiliatingly, Hermione feels hot tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Despite all of her research, the historical precedents she’d dug up, the hours of squinting at medieval legalese, despite all the power of her immense intellect, she’d failed. She’d failed.

No last-minute stroke of genius this time from Hermione Granger. 

“Then we must heed the Edict. Every witch and wizard between the ages of seventeen and forty-nine who have not already produced children will be matched with counterparts that the Chalice determines most magically compatible. I have a statement ready to go to the press this evening, to follow the groundwork we laid with them last week.”

Last week, when the Edict had appeared on the threshold of everyone’s homes, a neatly curled parchment wrapped in twine. Hermione had nearly binned it as junk or an advert, before she sensed the magic radiating from it. And then she had read it. 

The Ministry’s statement had gone out in the papers the next day, full of carefully-worded platitudes that managed to say very little beyond what everyone already knew. Hermione had gleaned just as much from the parchment itself, and the strange magic that suffused it. It was written what appeared to be Middle English, and contained a list of dictates. For each one Hermione had managed to read or otherwise decipher, her brows had climbed higher and higher. Then she had gone straight to the Ministry to offer her services. 

“Where is the Chalice being kept now?” Hermione asks. When the Chalice of Renewal had spat forth its own copy of the Edict, it was on display in the foyer she had just entered through, on a pedestal next to other historical fancies. A dented shield with Hufflepuff’s crest, a sword that the plaque next to it described as a very good copy of Excalibur, a hat that looked very much like the Sorting hat only oddly deflated. On a previous visit Hermione had noted that based on some of the stains around the rim of the Chalice, it was likely that some previous Minister or secretary had used it as an ashtray. 

“It is being housed in the Department of Mysteries, under watch,” Shacklebolt says. 

“Is it still glowing?”

“It hasn’t stopped.”

Hermione nearly buries her head in her hands, but refrains. “Will the Ministry be contacting each… candidate directly?”

“Yes.”

Hermione nods, then stands. There’s nothing more she can do here, not now. “I’ll continue my research then. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

She says it firmly enough, but the sympathetic look Shacklebolt sends her gives air to the obvious futility of her task. He stands as well to escort her to the door. 

Hermione pauses before the door, regarding Shacklebolt. He does look very tired. And he’s never had any children, not that Hermione knows of. She holds her hand out to him.

“Best of luck,” she says. Shacklebolt’s lips quirk up. He shakes her hand briefly.

“And to you as well.”

* * *

Hermione throws herself back into research for the next three weeks, though with tempered expectations. She barely comes up for air, but when she does, she notices how subdued the other people are in the shops she frequents. They cluster in anxious little knots, speaking quietly, and there’s always at least one person clutching a copy of the Edict. 

“...have you?”

“No, but I heard…”

“...five pairs a day is what I’ve heard…”

“...don’t know anyone that’s been sent notice, but my cousin says their neighbor got an owl from the Ministry. Couldn’t be for anything else right now, could it?”

Hermione grits her teeth and dives deeper into every obscure tome she can locate. At least she can do something productive rather than just useless speculation. 

* * *

When it comes, it’s almost an anticlimax. A plain letter, address printed in some clerk’s neat hand. Hermione places it on her tiny kitchen table and stares at it.

Well. It’s not as if she has to take this one. The Edict stated that each candidate would be given three choices. She had three chances. 

Or she could choose none of them, and the Chalice would suppress her magic for five years. And then if the magical population hadn’t recovered enough in that time, it would issue her three more chances. 

Hermione opens the letter. 

She scans the Ministry header, the brief salutation and unnecessary explanation, zeroing in on the only relevant piece of information.

She stares at the name, then puts the letter down. She snorts. Stares out the window. Looks back at the letter. She giggles, can’t help it really, then hiccups into a full-blown laugh. She keeps laughing, until tears come into her eyes. Maybe it’s just the sheer absurdity of the situation, maybe it’s the sudden break from all the anxious tension, maybe she’s finally cracked - who’s to say. She laughs so hard she has to sit with a thump in her kitchen chair. 

She manages to collect herself after a moment, wiping at her face with her sleeve.

Well. Nothing for it. She summons her parchment and quill, and pens a simple missive.

‘ _ I will not be marrying Gregory Goyle. Convey my regards to the Chalice.’ _

* * *

The next letter comes three days later. Hermione doesn’t hesitate this time, and opens it right away. The same verbiage as before, and a name. Hermione considers it, pensive. She taps it slowly on the table, then goes to arrange an international Floo call. 

“Hullo, Hermione,” Charlie Weasley says cheerfully when he answers.

“Hello,” Hermione says politely. He looks odd from this angle, crouched as she is with her head in her fireplace. Charlie is sitting on a footstool, elbows propped on his knees and hands clasped loosely between. 

“You have some news for me?” he prompts. 

“Yes. Well. Did you receive a copy of the Edict?”

“No, no one here did, though Mum talked my ear off about it when I came to visit last week. Doesn’t seem the area of effect reaches out to Romania,” he says, scratching idly at his chin. 

“Right,” Hermione says, “and have you received any letters from the Ministry?”

“I haven’t,” he says, brows creeping slowly up. “Any reason I should?”

“Well. Perhaps. I have another question for you though. Somewhat awkward, I apologize. Are you - well. Do you still prefer men?” Hermione asks. 

“Hermione,” he says solemnly. His eyes are twinkling though, so she doesn’t fall for it for a second. “Are you asking if I’m still gayer than a prancing songbird?”

“Songbirds don’t prance - yes. That’s what I’m asking.”

“As a matter of fact, I am. And I presume you didn’t call me up out of the blue just to ask me this?”

“No. I’m sure you’ve already guessed, but the Chalice spat out our names together. Given the circumstances, I’d say it was rather a bad match.”

“Rather so.”

“In any case, I thought I’d check with you first before I decline. Unless you have a pressing desire to come back to Britain and sire magically gifted children with your younger brother’s childhood friend?” Hermione had always liked Charlie, and it would have been much less a trial to cohabitate with him than - shudder - Goyle. But obviously the Chalice was not in the business of accounting for people’s personal tastes or their sexualities. 

“Don’t think I will,” Charlie says, grinning. “Thanks for the offer though.”

“You’re welcome,” Hermione says tartly. “And you should appreciate that I’ve now turned down two offers of marriage into your family. If your mother speaks to me any time in the next century, I will be extremely shocked.”

“Aw, she’ll get over it,” he says, waving a hand through the air as if he can wave away Molly Weasley’s righteous indignation. 

“You’re in Romania, you don’t have to deal with the fallout,” Hermione retorts.

“Well. No.” Charlie laughs at her expression. “Anyway, tell me how you’ve been doing while I’ve got you here. Any other exciting news from home?”

Hermione sighs, but allows the segue into more general smalltalk. 

She still has one chance left. 


End file.
